


30 Minutes

by Koah



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dark Comedy, Gen, Heist, I Don't Even Know, Maids with Guns, Not Realistic But Close Enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Koah/pseuds/Koah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A group of ex-special forces turned maids and a disaster locus travel to an unnamed South American banana republic with intent to rob it blind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Halsten Thern was having a very bad day.

He woke up to news that the imbeciles running his country had the audacity to not keel over and die during the night for the four hundredth and seventy-third day in a row. Despite his seniority, Jonas cut in front of him not once but twice during breakfast. When he was cleaning his lucky Makarov the spring rolled off the table and managed to outright disappear the moment it hit the floor, and he was forced to drive the truck with the bad suspension. But this... _this_ was the last straw.

"It's not here," the voice on Halsten's headset said.

"What do you mean, 'it's not here?'" he snapped back. "You said it would be here."

"We've gained access to the pathology lab records. The sample was destroyed nearly a month ago."

"*You* were the one who said it would be here." He began pacing the dimly-lit room, stepping around the blood splattered on the floor. "I thought you were trustworthy, Simon."

"The information I received was true to the best of my knowledge," Simon said, "and need I remind you that _you_ were the one who approved of this mission?"

Halsten ground his teeth. "Because I thought that _your_ information was trustworthy, and need I remind _you_ that it was _your_ idea to begin killing hostages until the superintendent revealed the location of the virus?"

"I thought he was holding out."

"Holding out for _six hours?_ We've slaughtered the entire building!"

"I thought he-"

"No, the problem is that you _didn't_ think." Halsten stole a glance at the only other living being in the room, a young male in a sweat-soaked white dress shirt and dark slacks, kneeling in one of the few clean spots left on the floor with his fingers knitted behind his head. He had been sneaking around looking for a way out when Halsten caught him, and he didn't want him running off a second time.

"It sounded like a bluff at the time. How are they supposed to make an antidote if they've destroyed their only sample of the virus?"

"They don't need to," his hostage clarified. "The samples were the only sources left on the planet, and it would be a vaccine, technic-"

Halsten pulled his headset off and aimed his pistol at the hostage's face, gently reminding him why it was a bad idea to listen in on conversations between angry men with guns. "Once I get out of here I'm going to murder that stupid son of a bitch. But for the time being, I think I'll settle for you."

"Can't you let me live?" he pleaded.

"Well," he said slowly, "let me th-"

Suddenly there was a soft "tak-tak-tak" and the sound of breaking glass. Halstern teetered on his feet, looking vaguely bewildered before tipping to the side and hitting the ground with a thump, blood running from the new holes in the side of his head. The hostage's eyes shot to the broken hallway window in time to see a shadow move out of view, and seconds later the door to the room opened to reveal a woman, pale with dark, wavy hair, wielding a silenced sub-machine gun.

The woman crept into the room towards the hostage, giving the environs one last scan before lowering her weapon. Pulling a photograph from her belt pouch with a gloved hand, she held it up for comparison. Same  
long face, same short brown curly hair... he didn't look nearly as dumbfounded in the photo, though that was most likely due to the circumstances at hand. "James Donovan, correct?"

He blinked. She had a commanding, authoritarian edge to her voice, but that could have just been the Russian accent. "...yes?"

She shoved the photo back into the pouch. "Good." Reaching down, she grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet with her free hand before giving him a shove towards the door. "Now move."

Donovan stumbled forward for a bit before looking back at her. "Wait a minute, where are we going?"

"Out of here," she retorted. "Unless you've other plans."

"Uh..."

"I didn't think so."

He leaned through the doorway, glancing furtively in either direction. "You're not with them, are you?"

The woman knew that people in stressful situations were not, as a general rule, going to be perfectly lucid, but this was pushing it somewhat. "No. I'm here to rescue you. To the left, please."

He turned to her again, pointing in the previously mentioned direction. "There's guys with guns down there."

"There _were_ , yes; now there's bodies with guns. We've ten minutes to make it to the helipad upstairs before they're scheduled to check in with each other. I suggest we hurry."

Donovan obediently stepped into the hallway as the woman strode out behind him. The electricity was cut several hours ago, leaving the building to be lit by a back-up lighting system which did a woefully inadequate job of anything illumination-related short of keeping people from tripping over their own feet. Despite this, he could make out two or three shadows on the floor that he was certain weren't there when he last saw it. Noticing the woman's expectant look as she passed him by he hurried down the hall, falling into step beside her. "I- thank you. I guess I owe you my life."

"You're not an easy person to find," she said matter-of-factly. "I searched through half this facility trying to locate you."

"Locate me?"

"Yes." She eased the magazine off the bottom of her weapon, checking the number of rounds left in it. "Your father asked me to find you."

"But why? I haven't talked to him in months."

"I didn't ask. If it's any help to you his exact words were, and I quote, 'that brainless fuck would wander into the middle of the apocalypse if he didn't cause it first.'"

That sounded like him, he thought. "He doesn't think I'm in on..." He gestured to the environs. "...this, does he?"

She paused, peering at him out of the corner of her eye. "Are you?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"Are you normally the cause, indirect or no, of wanton death and destruction?"

"Death and destruction specifically, or just scenarios that are very, very bad?"

"Things like this have happened before." It wasn't a question.

"When you say 'things like this,' do you mean would-be bioterrorist raids or unpleasant situations in both the short and long-term?"

She snapped the magazine back in place. "Are you a walking disaster area, yes or no?"

"Now when you say 'walking disa-'" Her expression changed, and for the briefest of moments Donovan found the platoon of angry armed men the second-most terrifying thing in the building. "-yes I am a walking disaster area please do not kill me."

"I'm curious as to how that's possible," she said, now regarding him with vague interest, "but we can talk on the way out."

Four tense, awkward minutes later, Donovan realized that the woman was more focused on what was happening around her - or what _wasn't_ happening around her, as the case may be - and had no intention of actually saying anything beyond simple orders for him to wait or follow, much less initiating any sort of conversation. She may have only said that to be polite, though he doubted that anyone in her position actually needed to be polite in situations like this. Regardless, he felt the need to fill the silence with _something_.

"...I'm not even even supposed to be here," he confessed.

"Oh?"

"I work in a hospital in the next county over. They sent me over here to drop off some files that were sent to the wrong doctor. In the wrong building, I mean."

"Mmm."

"Well, I don't _work_ work. I'm an intern." Realizing that he was starting to ramble nervously, he decided a change of subject was in order. "So how did you find me?"

"Your father saw a report of a hostage situation at a pathology lab and assumed you were caught up in it. It turned out that he was right."

"But I'm in emergency medicine. The only reason I was here was because the Brussels lab sent a package to the wrong place and it was cheaper and quicker for someone to take it here than for them to re-mail it."

"As I said, he assumed that you were caught up in it."

That sounded like him too, he thought. "Great." A second later another question crossed his mind. "So how are we going to get out?"

"By helicopter," she replied, stopping by a stairwell door. "The police have all the roads cordoned off a half-mile in all directions. All they know is that an unknown number of hostiles are holed up in a location filled with infectious diseases and they haven't issued any demands."

The woman motioned for Donovan to stay put, then positioned herself along the wall beside the door. Readying her weapon she flung it open, slipping in as Donovan caught its handle and held it open, scanning above and below for any signs of hostiles. Content that the coast was clear she waved him in before ascending the steps ahead of him.

Now in the markedly improved light of the emergency stairwell - and, more importantly, not in mortal danger - Dovonan had the chance to get a better look at his savior. For some reason he had thought her younger, all things considered, but she looked more to be in her mid-thirties. It wasn't entirely unusual, however, and even though she was wearing a tactical harness, earpiece and microphone and armed with a pistol, a grenade or two and what looked like a silenced MP5, it all made sense in context.

The camouflage maid uniform, though... "Can I ask you something?"

"That depends on the question."

"I wanted to ask why you were dressed as a maid."

"I'm not dressed as a maid. I am a maid."

Perfectly logical, he thought. "Okay. So why are you dressed as a maid now?"

She came to a stop on the roof landing, looking down at him. "Are you saying there's something wrong with how I'm dressed? Because I'm rather fond of it, to be quite honest."

"It just doesn't seem practical, that's all."

"It's an urban reed pattern outfit designed for freedom of movement worn during a search and rescue operation in an indoor setting. Which part of that doesn't seem practical, precisely?"

Donovan promptly decided that it was in his best interests to abandon the current train of discussion. "Never mind."

If the woman had any reaction besides barely perceptible disinterest she didn't show it, instead pushing the door to the roof open and creeping outside. Donovan continued to climb up after her, peering out the window in time to see her come into view near the helipad and wave him out as she slung her MP5 over her back, mouth moving as she presumably spoke to whomever was on the other end of the headset she was wearing. As he exited onto the roof and approached her he managed to catch her half of the conversation.

"Roger that. No, but they should be catching on any minute now." She glanced over at Donovan, giving him an inscrutable look that he wasn't entirely comfortable with. "Neither do I. He must have his reasons. Understood. Out." Turning her attention to Donovan she asked, "so how often has this happened?"

"How often has what happened?"

She gestured to the rest of the complex. "This. You're a walking disaster area by your own admission; I'm just curious as to how frequently it's occurred."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because being in one helicopter crash in one's own lifetime is enough for anyone, myself included, and if there's a chance that a second might happen in the next hour I'd like to know about it beforehand."

He sighed deeply, counting off on his fingers as he listed the events. "When I was seven a gas station exploded in my hometown and took out a couple blocks. A few years after that my school dorm went up in a gas fire, even though it used electric heating, and a few years after _that_ the new dorms collapsed because they weren't built up to code. Both fast food restaurants I worked at as a cashier were closed due to health code violations..."

"Salmonella?"

"Botulism. I did some volunteer work for a member of the county commission's re-election committee; a month later the press found out he was taking donations from NAMBLA, which wouldn't have been so bad if they didn't find the pictures he had taken with the governor a week later. There was nearly a shooting at my college campus..."

"Nearly?"

"The shooter was hit by the lacrosse team's bus. The explosives in his bag went off on impact; nearly everyone on the bus was hospitalized." He paused. "Would my father going through four marriages count?"

"Having worked for your father these past few years I'm inclined to say 'no.'" Her brow furrowed slightly, and she rested a finger on the side of her headset's earpiece. "Repeat that. _Now?_ Very well, put him through." A second later she said, in a more pleasant tone of voice, "Master Donovan, good day. We have. He's right here as a matter of fact; did you want to speak to him? ...I see. Yes, we're waiting for the helicopter as we speak." After a second of silence she looked over at Donovan with might have been her version of concern, and he found himself wondering why he couldn't have been saved by someone less emotionally reserved. "I beg your pardon?" she said, starting to pace the roof. "Master Donovan, you understand what you're asking of me, correct? Yes, and it was on your orders. ...sir, are you honestly telling me to leave your own son here just as we're prepared to leave?"

Donovan boggled. "He _what?_ "

"He's your son," she replied to the Donovan patriarch. "Does that mean nothing to you? So the sudden change of heart was- ...no, sir. Were you hoping he was killed?" She stopped in her tracks, listening for several seconds. "Tax purposes?"

"Tax purposes?!"

She mouthed the word "quiet" at him. "Master Donovan, you realize that the recompense for this mission will still be the same whether he comes with us or not at this point, correct?" She paused, giving Donovan another discomforting sidelong glance. "I don't shoot civilians in cold blood, sir. ...am I to take it that you're terminating my employment with you, then?" The corner of her mouth twitched upward ever so slightly in a faint, brief smile. "No, Master Donovan, I wouldn't expect to remain in your will, either. I am nothing if not understanding, and the others are nothing if not loyal. I shall return tomorrow to hand in my resignation in person and claim my belongings, and to give the news to the other servants. Yes, Master Donovan. Goodbye."

He gestured with his index finger. "What... what just happened?"

"Your father attempted to convince me to either leave you here or shoot you, then, believing that the other servants of the household answer to him and not myself, terminated my employment with him when I refused to do either."

"Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? You weren't the one who fired me." A few seconds of thought later she said, "Donovan, have you ever considered what you would do if your father met with an unfortunate accident?"

"An unfortunate accident?"

"Yes. A heart attack, for example, possibly brought on by the stress of knowing his only son was in danger, resulting in his inheritance going to you and his servants."

"Well, I've thought about it, bu-" Donovan stared at her. "Wait a minute, what- ...are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"That depends on what you think I'm saying."

"You're going to kill my father, aren't you?"

"Knowing what he's like," she began, "and that he would leave you to die, do you care?"

* * *

As he watched the car pull away, young Donovan turned to his father and asked. "Daddy, why does mommy have to go away? Is it because of something I did?"

His father looked at him before lowering himself down on one knee. Gently resting his hand on his son's shoulder, he said, "yes, and the only reason you're not going with her is so I don't have to pay through the nose for child support."

* * *

"Dad, why do I have to go to a boarding school?"

"So you can learn things and not be a useless lump."

"But I already learn things at the school I'm going to now."

"Yes, and when you're not there you're sitting around here being a useless lump. At least at a boarding school I don't have to look at you."

"But it's in Maine!"

"Only because I couldn't find one further away from here that would take you." He turned him around, shoving him towards the door. "Now hurry up and get on the taxi."

* * *

"Dad," Donovan beamed, "I finally got a scholarship. I'm going to medical school!"

"What field?"

"Emergency medicine."

He scoffed. "To hell with that. Become a coroner."

"Wh- what? Why?"

"Because if you're operating on live patients you'll just screw something up and I don't want to have to spend *my* money bailing you out because you can't afford malpractice insurance."

* * *

"...not really, no," he admitted. "He's kind of an asshole."

"There you are, then," she replied. Then, speaking into her headset, she calmly said something in Russian that Donovan couldn't understand and likely wouldn't want to.

Once her brief conversation ended he asked, "so... what are you, really?"

"I'm a maid."

"Maids don't normally know how to fight terrorists."

"They do if they're ex-Spetsnaz."

He blinked. "...are all the maids that work under you ex-Spetsnaz?"

"Of course not; that would be absurd."

"Oh. Well, that-"

"Most of them are from other organizations: SAS, Fernspäher, Duvdevan, two Marines..."

"How many?" he asked, not really sure if he wanted to ask that in the first place.

"All of them." She looked out into the distance a second before Donovan heard the telltale "whud-whud-whud" of a helicopter rotor. "Excellent."

"So how did you all meet?"

"It's a long story," she said, not looking at him.

"Okay... why are you all maids?"

"It's an even longer story."

"...you're not going to tell me, are you?"

"I wasn't planning on it, no."

* * *

The head maid - Donovan still didn't know her name and didn't think it prudent to ask - didn't say much of anything after that. The only words he heard from her were "get in" after the helicopter arrived, and nothing after. The pilot was similarly quiet, though Donovan attributed that to being focused on getting away from the complex and avoiding police scrutiny. There was, however, no excuse for her staring at him as she sat across from him, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, fingers knitted together in front of her face. He assumed that she was deep in thought and not aware that she was staring at him, and even if she wasn't he didn't think it a wise idea to mention it.

Suddenly she asked, "what are your plans?"

It took a second for him to register that she had spoken. "My what?"

"Your plans," she repeated, raising her voice so as to be heard more clearly over the noise of the helicopter's rotors. "Due to a fatal incident that befell your father..." She took a quick glance at her watch. "...three minutes ago you're in possession of no small amount of monetary assets, as are his former servants, including myself."

Donovan shrugged. "I guess I could... forget about interning and retire early. Live off what he had set up."

"You don't feel particularly keen on continuing your career?"

He shook his head. "There's no real point to me working anymore."

"Might I ask you why you chose to work in a medical field, then?"

He opened his mouth to speak.

"Aside from a desire for monetary independence and a sense of approval from paternal figures that your father never gave you," she added.

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

"I apologize if I offended you."

"Um... no, that... that's pretty much it."

"...lucky guess," she murmured to herself. Raising her voice, she continued. "But consider this: You're seated across someone in command of a platoon of ex-special forces soldiers who have taken on the roles of domestic servants with connections to arms dealers and PMCs across the globe. Your very presence results in the catastrophic breakdown of the status quo, and both you and I are - or will be - in possession of disgustingly large amounts of money, enough to fund a major operation."

"O...kay," he said hesitantly. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're getting at."

"Have you ever been to South America, Donovan?"

"No."

"Are you familiar with the concept of coup d'etats?"

"No." He paused to put two and two together. "You want me to help you take over a country?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course not. Forty soldiers can't conquer an entire nation." She leaned back in her seat, looking out the side of the helicopter. "I want you to come with me to work for a leader of a country, destabilize it and _then_ , in the ensuing chaos, rob it blind."

He stared. Somehow the completely casual way she said that made it sound even worse. "Why?!"

She raised her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "Worst-case scenario, we rob the treasury and leave before either the CIA or the local authorities can stop us. Best-case, we take everything that isn't nailed down and sell it all to the highest bidder." She looked back at him. "Either way, we get a substantial return on our investment."

"You..." he stammered, pointing a finger at the head maid. "You want me..." He pointed to himself. "To help you..." Back to her. "Overthrow a foreign government."

"Yes."

"For money."

"Yes."

"But I already have a lot of money."

"Have you ever heard people talk about how they have enough money?"

Donovan slumped forward, burying his head in his hands. "I can't believe you're asking this."

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't know you literally had no plans aside from simply sitting in your father's mansion killing time until you die."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?"

"What do you _want_ to do?"

"I don't know!" He ran his hands through his hair. "Look, I've had a _really bad day_ , alright? It doesn't help that you show up and, and start saying THIS to me and bringing up how everything goes wrong in the worst possible way when I'm around..."

"So why not try taking advantage of it? Adapt and overcome."

Donovan slumped in his seat, rubbing his eyes with his hand. A relative silence fell over the helicopter's cabin, and it wasn't until several minutes had passed that the head maid spoke up again. "If I may add something."

"What is it?" he asked, staring up at the helicopter's roof.

"It's obvious that part of you wants to take part in this."

"Why's that?"

"Because if you honestly didn't you would have said 'no' by now." He lowered his head to find her sitting there looking at him expectantly, both arms up behind her head. "Am I wrong?"

He broke eye contact for a brief moment. "...is this plan safe?"

"Of course not. At some point we will most likely be shot at. Possibly worse. It is relatively safe, however, assuming you can follow simple directions. I'm not going to put you directly in harm's way, after all."

Donovan took a deep breath. "Okay," he said, "assuming I said 'yes,' what would the plan be?"


	2. Chapter 2

"The plan is rather simple," the head maid said, watching Donovan's reflection in the mirror. "We arrive, gain his trust, then when an opportune moment presents itself we make our move, relieving him of any important documents, account numbers, and anything of value before escaping."

"That's all there is?" Donovan asked. The maid behind him raised his arm, sliding a pin into the sleeve of his shirt before making a few chalk marks on the back of his vest.

"No. There's still the matter of planning, surveillance, and logistics, most of which will be done by myself or the rest of the unit, but none of which concerns you. It would be more correct to say that your part in the plan is simple."

"How's the fit?" the maid asked.

"It's a little tight in the back," he replied.

She nodded, pulling out a pin and making another chalk mark.

"Just out of curiousity," Donovan said, "how much were we planning on taking?"

"All of it."

"All of it? Can't we give some of it back? To the locals, I mean."

"'Give some of it back?' Ignoring that the majority of it is foreign aid funds that never reached them in the first place, are you suggesting simply dumping tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions in local currency into their economy?"

"...yes?"

"Thereby causing rampant inflation, destabilizing the nation with an act of economic terrorism and making things even worse for its people? That's quite heartless. It's much more humane to keep it for ourselves."

The maid turned to the head maid and said something in Russian, to which she nodded and replied in kind. She gave Donovan a look before tilting her head in a dismissive half-shrug and returning her attention to his vest.

"What if I donate some of it to charity after we're done?" he asked.

"If it's wearing on you that much," the head maid said, "you're better off donating an equivalent amount from what you've inherited from your father. Aside from being tax-deductible, it doesn't need to be laundered."

"Oh, I never thought of that. But all that's assuming he says 'yes.'"

"He will. It may take some time, but eventually he'll come about. If nothing else, it will give us more time to train you properly."

"What makes you so sure? That he'll hire y-" He paused. "...us, I mean."

"You'll see when we meet him."

\---

"Look a this, Acosta." Generalissimo Antonio Castellano spread his arms, gesturing to the city beyond the balcony of his palace. "Three years ago this was under the iron fist of those Communist despots. The people lived in squalor and fear, but now? Now they live in safety, cleanliness and wealth, the likes of which they could not- no, _were not permitted_ to imagine."

"It is very nice," Grand Marshal Acosta noted. He did not bring up how the safety was due to the draconian curfew, how the difference between clean, dusty streets and dirty dusty streets was academic at best, or how much of the nation's wealth was due to Castellano's two-year "Start Growing Coca Plants Or Else Nobody Will Find Your Body" plan.

"Of course it is!" Castellano said, whirling about to face him. "Because it is my country! My guidance, _my_ leadership made it this way! It was difficult, of course."

"Of course, Generalissimo."

"But it was a labor of love." He put his hand on Acosta's shoulder as they walked back inside, gesturing with his other hand. "For I love this country, and its people. Yes, they are better off under my rule than they have ever been... but it is the most bitter of ironies that I, their leader, am not. Leaders must be expected to make sacrifices for their people, of course, but of what use is prosperity if I cannot share in it as well?"

Acosta stole a quick glance at the twice life-sized painting of Castellano hanging on the far wall of the room, flanked on either side by marble busts. "It would be unthinkable, Generalissimo."

"Yes, yes, very much so! I have done much for this country, so it is only fair that I do something for myself. For instance, the palace help. They are loyal, of course, but unfortunately they are... how you say..."

"Inadequate, Generalissimo?"

"Yes, inadequate!" Stepping away from Acosta, Castellano began pacing the room. "They cannot cook, they cannot clean, and I am constantly being bothered by that useless Major about how I have his soldiers doing the cooking and cleaning. What was I supposed to do, keep the old servants around? They were probably Communists down to the man." He stopped abruptly, gesturing to a spot on the floor. "You can still see the blood stains of these traitors! Even in death, they leave their Communist... their..." He gesticulated. "Acosta, help me out."

"Taint?"

"Yes, thank you! They leave their Communist taint on everything they touch! They must be replaced, but! With proper capitalists." He paused just long enough for Acosta to wonder if he shouldn't be complimenting him. "You see, Communists are loyal to their _ideologies_ and their _Marxism_ , but capitalists are loyal to _money_ , and since _I_ have the money, they will be loyal to _me_."

"Very logical, Generalissimo."

"Of course it is! But even this selfishness carries with it an act of selflessness, for I am not merely doing this for myself. I am doing it for these poor soldiers who yearn to return to their duties. To their true callings!"

"Logical and selfless, Generalissimo."

"Exactly!" Castellano put his arm around Acosta's shoulder. "Do you know what I like about you, Acosta? You are never afraid to speak your mind."

\---

The maid inclined her head towards the young man sitting at the rear of the covered light truck, who was keeping himself occupied by watching the jungle pass by on either side of the road. "That's the boy, isn't it, Nadezhda?"

Nadezhda - another maid, as were all the women in the truck - glanced over. "Yes. The starshyna said she had plans for Donovan's son, Zasha."

"I was expecting something different from him. He looks the part of a butler, but we do not need more people pretending to be servants, least of all a civilian." Zasha drummed her fingers on the seat beside her. "I do not like this. This is a military operation, yet we are unarmed and the starshyna's plan hinges on... on _magic_."

"She has never lead us astray." She turned to look at the driver and, when his gaze met hers, she smiled sweetly. The driver grinned back at her for a second before returning his attention to the road. "...and they suspect nothing. Besides, it is not as if you need a gun to protect yourself. Remember Chechnya? How you left a crate of vodka near a rebel camp, waited until nightfall and when they were all drunk or asleep you slit all their throats?"

"No, it wasn't all of them. I left their leader alive. The starshyna interrogated him, remember?"

"Yes, I remember now." She paused. "Did you not leave one of the soldiers alive as well?"

"Ahhhh yes!" Zasha exclaimed, beaming. "Yes, there was a room with nearly a dozen soldiers in it. I took his knife, used it to execute the others and then put it in his hand. When he woke up he saw what happened and let out such a scream. I think I may have driven him mad."

"You are a cruel person, Zasha."

"I am cruel? I am not the one who shot rebels in the legs with a sniper rifle to draw out their allies, Nadezhda."

"There is a difference between cruelty and practicality. I was being practical."

"You do not think it is practical to save bullets?"

"You saved bullets by wasting liquor," she retorted.

"It was not _good_ liquor!"

"Good or bad, you gave it to dead men, and for what? So you could solve a problem with a knife instead of a gun?" Nadezhda folded her arms across her chest. "There was a reason you were discharged six months after that."

"...and yet, here we are. The starshyna knows talent when she sees it."

"Talent without restraint is worthless. You would execute one of the despot's men and feed it to him for your own amusement were you left to your own devices."

Zasha glared at Nadezhda for a moment before shrugging and looking away. "...you know me too well." Pointing to her she added, "but I could still get away with it!"

\---

"They are speaking Russian," the driver said to the head maid. "Castellano does not like the Communists."

"Neither do we," the head maid replied. "We believe in working for our money."

\---

In the back of the truck Donovan leaned towards the maid resting opposite him. "Hey," he said sotto voce, "what are they talking about?"

She opened one eye, looking at him dispassionately before closing it again. "You don't want to know."

\---

The trucks came to a halt outside the Generalissimo's palace, and the squad of soldiers stationed nearby stepped forward to assist the passengers in exiting the military vehicle and offloading their various suitcases and trunks. Watching all this occur was Castellano and Acosta, the latter not particularly expecting what he saw. "Maids, General?"

"Yes, maids." He clapped Acosta on the shoulder and, lowering his voice, added, "I am still a young man at heart, eh?" As the maids - and Donovan, the ersatz butler, not entirely of his own will - assembled at the foot of the palace's steps Castellano spread his arms wide. "Welcome to my country!" he exclaimed.

The head maid gingerly hopped off the back of the truck and approached him before bowing deeply. "Good day to you, master," she said in a soft, even tone. "It shall be our pleasure to serve you."

"I am sure it will." Suddenly Castellano drew a large, gold-plated handgun from his hip holster, aiming it at the head maid's head and sending the other maids into a panicked fit of shrieking. "But first things first: Your accent is very... Russian. Russia is full of Communists. So how do I know that you are trustworthy?"

"W-why master," she stammered, visibly flustered, "you, personally, spoke to us. If you did not think us trustworthy you would not have hired us."

Castellano pondered her answer for a few seconds before nodding and re-holstering his weapon. "You are clever! I like that. Now then, I was told that you were all maids." He pointed to Donovan. "But he does not look like a maid."

"He is the son of our former master," she replied. "It was our master's dying wish that he be trained as a servant."

"I am moved, but he is still not a maid."

"If the master wishes it, I could exchange his uniform for one of my own."

Castellano stared at her for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Acosta."

"Yes, General?" he said, striding over to his side.

Turning away, the Generalissimo and Grand Marshal had a quiet, animated discussion for a few minutes, glancing over their shoulders at Donovan every so often in a manner that he wasn't entirely comfortable with. Turning back towards the head maid he exclaimed, "that will not be necessary!" He pointed towards him again. "You are sure he is not a Communist?"

"I am, master," the head maid replied.

"Fantastic!" He snapped his fingers. "Soldiers! Assist these women in moving their belongings. The butler's as well! The sooner they are settled in the sooner they can begin serving our beautiful country!"

As the maids, soldiers and Donovan continued exiting the vehicles and unloading their belongings, Donovan's attention remained focused on the head maid, something which did not escape her notice. "Is something the matter?" she asked, a concerned expression on her face.

He blinked. "...no, madam."

"Very well. Please help the soldiers with our belongings. It would be improper for us to burden them so."

He bowed slightly, letting out a low "yes madam" before returning to one of the trucks, taking a trunk from one of the soldiers and heading towards the palace doors.

\---

"What was that?" Donovan asked, setting the trunk down at the foot of the bed.

The head maid opened the suitcase, glancing over her shoulder at him. "I am not certain as to what you mean. Regardless, now is not the time for idle discussion."

"You're... you're still doing it."

One of the other maids approached the head maid and said, "the room is clean, ma'am," punctuating her statement with a casual salute.

She nodded. "Thank you, Ilya," she replied, the commanding tone returning to her voice. Turning her attention back to Donovan she said, "now then, what were you saying?"

"I... was about to ask why you started acting so strangely around the President."

"He's not a president," she replied, lifting a stack of immaculately-folded uniforms out of the suitcase and placing them in the open drawer next to her. "He's a Generalissimo, and that-" She slid the drawer shut. "-was how someone who is a career servant and not a well-trained operative planning on overthrowing his master's country sounds and behaves."

"Are you going to be acting like that all the time?"

"Yes. Why, is there a problem?"

"Yeah, it's kind of creepy. I'm too used to you waving guns around and giving out orders." He paused, looking around him. "Wait, should we even be having this conversation? What if the room is bugged?"

"It isn't." The head maid pointed across the room. "Ilya checked. I'm impressed that you thought of that, however, even if it was after the fact. Back on topic, I would recommend that you learn to deal with it, at least while in the company of the locals and until the action starts. Whenever that may be."

Donovan sighed, looking down at his outfit. "Do you really think I can pull this off?"

She gave him a once-over. "You look the part, at least, and provided that you can do what you're told in the manner in which I told you there shouldn't be any problems. Surely you've some experience following orders. What did you do before this when you worked at the lab?"

"I was an intern. Mostly I just handled some of the minor injury cases that they couldn't be bothered with and got them coffee."

The head maid shut the briefcase before rapping her knuckles on the top of it twice. "Then you'll manage. Any potential slip-ups can be explained away by beginner's incompetence, and judging by the way the Generalissimo carries himself he doesn't have terribly high standards." Taking on her maid tone she added, "if it helps the young master, try to think of it as a play of sorts that we put on for our esteemed master."

"Speaking of him, when you were talking to him earlier..." He trailed off.

She arched an eyebrow.

"You weren't... _really_... going to have me wear a dress, were you?"

"Are you saying you wouldn't wear a dress for weeks on end?"

"Of course I wouldn't!"

"Are you saying you wouldn't wear a dress for weeks on end if it meant earning several million dollars, not only for yourself, but for forty other people?"

Donovan opened his mouth to reply, then quickly shut it, looking away.

She pulled the suitcase off the bed. "There you are, then."


	3. Chapter 3

Donovan bowed. "I have moved the wine bottles from the cellar into the kitchen as you have requested, master." Experience had been a very quick teacher to Donovan, especially when experience had a battle-hardened maid as an aide and the threat of death by firing squad should his facade slip as supplemental material. Strangely enough he wasn't as nervous as he thought he would be in these situations or, if he was, he wasn't so nervous as to not make extremely strained similes about the selfsame situations.

Castellano turned from the study window to face him. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Your fellow servants are wonderful cooks, but even the finest of foods can be improved with fine spirits. Do you not agree?"

"I do not drink liquor with my meals, but I trust the master's experience on the matter."

Castellano looked at him oddly. "You do not drink?"

"I have before my service with the master," he explained, "but I may be called on to serve at any time. It simply would not do to be impaired."

He laughed heartily, slapping Donovan on the back. "You are a man who knows what it means to serve! I like that! Ortega could learn a thing or two from you! Why, were I to have a thousand more men like you I could build a utopia!"

Unfortunately, Donovan was in no position to savor the irony.

"Come," he said, putting his arm around Donovan's shoulder and escorting him towards the study's side door. "Let me show you my collection." Castellano pushed the door open into a room lined with racks and glass cases, all filled with various rifles and pistols. Two larger glass cases, each holding a half-dozen assault rifles each, took up the center of the room. The overall effect was either that of a misplaced exhibit in a military museum or a shrine to ballistics-based warfare. "I normally show this to new guests, but women do not appreciate these sorts of things as us men do."

Donovan was still in no position to savor the irony. "It is quite impressive," he said, looking into one of the cases and trying very hard to seem interested.

"It is!" He chuckled. "One should always have a hobby. Of course, I always keep the prize of my collection by my side." He drew a heavy, gold-plated pistol from his hip holster, holding it up for Donovan to see. "The .50 Desert Eagle, the most powerful handgun in the world." He took aim at some unseen point in the distance. "When you shoot something, you want to be very sure that it is dead as soon as possible."

"That is ivory in the handle, is it not?"

"You are very observant," he replied. "It cost me a lot of money to make this weapon, but it was worth it. Because to me..." He lowered the pistol, looking at it in his hand. "To me it is a symbol of my country: Powerful, wealthy and forged by the hands of people who hate those filthy Communists."

Donovan was, however, in a position to mentally facepalm. 

"Ah, but I do not want to keep you from your duties," the Generalissimo said, re-holstering his pistol. "The maids no doubt keep you busy with heavy lifting that they cannot handle themselves and other menial tasks." He waved him off. "You are dismissed."

Donovan bowed. "Very well. By your leave, sir." Turning, he departed from his presence, rolling his eyes the moment he was out of view. "...almost feel sorry for him..."

\---

That night the palace seemed emptier than usual to Donovan, due in no small part to the absence of several of the maids, with a cursory search revealing that it was, in fact, due in large part to the absence of _all_ the maids. With Generalissimo Castellano asleep, Donovan's duties finished for the evening and, most importantly, the knowledge that the maids were most likely fine due to the lack of gunfire or screaming, he decided not to concern himself with it and instead resolved to return to the servants' quarters. Which was, incidentally, where all the maids were, kneeling and standing in a loose semicircle around the head maid, herself seated atop a steamer trunk at the foot of one of the beds.

"Oh good, you're here," the head maid remarked. "Saves me the trouble of saying this twice. Now then, despite managing to hold an inherently unstable country together for seven years, Castellano is incompetent, sexist, overly paranoid about Communists, overly trusting of people who _aren't_ Communists, and most likely sampling a great deal of his country's primary export. Fortunately it's made the first part of our job much simpler."

Reaching down, she felt around the bottom of the trunk she was sitting on for a bit until a small hatch slid open, then pulled out several folded sheets of paper. "His implicit trust in us has enabled us to map out the entirety of the palace without his knowing," she continued, unfolding the pages, "and from there we were able to determine the most likely hiding spots for any hidden caches of money or valuables: Namely, his own bedroom-" She pointed to one wall on the page, the notes nearby denoting that there was a space of at least two feet between it and the other room. "-and the wine cellar, located behind an obviously false wine rack."

"How did you find that?" Donovan asked.

"How did you _not_ find it?" one of the maids retorted.

"Further investigation showed that the wine cellar contained several metal briefcases full of unmarked American currency, and given the chance to search the bedroom we would most likely find the same, either behind the walls or in a safe of some sort. Have I been clear on everything that's been said thus far?"

The maids responded with nods and various sounds of agreement.

"Good." Reaching back down, she replaced the maps and closed the hidden compartment again. "In the instance of a worst-case scenario, we know where to go and what to take first and foremost. However, thanks to some particularly sharp ears we know that Castellano has a stockpile in the region, secreted away-"

Donovan raised his hand. "Excuse me. 'Stockpile?'"

"Yes, stockpile. Of contraband. Cocaine, to be precise." Returning her attention to the group at large she said, "unfortunately-"

"We're going to steal cocaine?"

The head maid very nearly rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"Why?"

"So we can sell it."

"You sell cocaine?"

"We have, on occasion, made use of connections to organized crime syndicates in order to exchange contraband for money, yes."

"Only because the CIA kept short-changing us," one of the maids muttered.

"As I was saying," the head maid said insistently, looking pointedly at Donovan and the other maid, "we know that the stockpile exists, but not where it is or how easily transported it is, and stopping to look for them when we're exfiltrating is out of the question. So until recon can pin down its location we're going to have to make do with just the cash on hand and anything else of value. After that we'll change our plans accordingly. Do I make myself clear?" Nods, scattered "yes ma'am"s. "Good. Dismissed."

As the maids broke up and went their separate ways, Donovan approached the head maid and hesitantly asked, "okay, so what's the plan?"

"I've already told everyone with a part to play in this plan what they need to do," she said, standing up.

"But you didn't tell me anything."

"I didn't need to; you've been doing it already." She folded her arms across her chest. "Or would you I prefer that I told you everything I told the others-"

"Yes!"

"-thereby giving Castellano an incentive to torture you for information should things take a turn for the worse?"

He stared. "You didn't say anything about torture."

"I believe I said something to the effect of, 'we will probably be shot at or worse.' Torture usually qualifies as 'worse.'"

"...I think I'm better off not knowing."

"There you are, then."

\---

When the anniversary of the nation's most recent revolution came around, Generalissimo Castellano saw fit to order a week of mandatory celebration, during which time he gave the palace servants the time off to spend as they liked. The head maid, as well as the rest of the serving staff save Donovan, spent their time in parts unknown for the majority of the day. Donovan had half a mind to ask the few he did see what was going on, but after the talk he had with the head maid earlier he decided that, at least in this instance, ignorance was bliss.

Left without a plan and intentionally in the dark, Donovan spent the majority of the celebration wandering the town and trying to stay out of trouble. He let compassion get the best of him, however, when he passed by the bar and found a middle-aged man in uniform seated on a bench outside, sobbing into his hands. "Excuse me," he asked, hoping the man's English was at least passable, "are you alright?"

The man looked up at him, bleary-eyed. "Oh!" he exclaimed, the odor of cheap rum wafting out of his mouth. He pointed a shaky finger at him. "You are... are... un criado por Del Generalissimo, sí?"

"Uh... yes," he replied, hoping that this wouldn't segue into him getting shot. "Why do you ask?"

"Ah..." He nodded. "Then you work for la chica de-" He trailed off into a combination of mumbling, slurring and Spanish idioms that Donovan couldn't quite make out, but from the various gestures the man made his intent was glaringly clear.

"...yes?"

"Is she good to you?"

Donovan took a seat beside him. "I don't think she _hates_ me," he replied, choosing to err on the side of caution.

"It is good that she likes you. But my boss does not like me. He-" He paused to let out a hiccup. "...he does not like _any_ of us."

"Who?"

"Me y mis hermanos. He treats us all bad, he yells at us, he sometimes hits us... a lot... with his fists." A tear rolled down his cheek. "He is a very angry person, all the time. We do not know why he does this," he sobbed. "He used to be so nice to us... I do so many things for him, for the country and he does not say anything." He sobbed. "Él no hizo agradecido por tirado esos pueblos..."

"...and you just take it?"

The man shrugged helplessly. "What else can we do?"

"You should talk to everyone, come up with a list of grievances and tell him them."

The man did a marvelous job of looking at Donovan without actually focusing on him. "Gr... gree-vances."

"Yeah. Just talk to the rest of the people you work with, write down all the things he does that you want him to stop doing, and tell him, 'sir, we have a problem with how you're treating us, and we demand that you do something about it.' Nothing is going to change unless you make it change."

The man stared at Donovan about twice as long as he would have preferred before mumbling, "you are right." He stood up, very nearly falling over in the process. "You are right! I will talk to the others and we will add-dress our gree-vances to him." He grasped Donovan's hand, shaking it violently before stumbling off. "I thank you, gringo! Things will change!"

As Donovan watched the man push his way past several people - a remarkable feat, as the road outside the bar was sparsely populated - he noticed that his conversation had attracted unwanted attention from a few of the locals. Being well aware of the tendency of people who attract attention to disappear suddenly and not wanting to press his luck any further, he decided that it was in his best interests to return to the palace and call it a day.

\---

Donovan rapped his knuckle against the door to the servants' quarters. "It's Donovan. Let me in."

The door opened a crack and a maid leaned her head out, less interested in him than in the darkness behind him. Content with the knowledge that he was alone, she opened the door further and stepped aside, allowing him ingress before closing and latching it behind him.

"Castellano's passed out in bed," he said. "I was starting to wonder just... how..." He trailed off, staring at the head maid, who was currently seated at the foot of one of the beds.

She replaced the slide on the pistol in her hands. "Is something the matter?" she asked, not bothering to look up.

"Where did you get..." He pointed. "...that?"

She turned the pistol over. "What, the USP?"

"Yes, and everything else that the other maids have," he replied, gesturing to the maids engaged in similar acts of firearm assembly and maintenance.

She held it out, dry-firing it. "There's no harm in telling you after the fact, I suppose. Do you remember the anniversary celebration, how many of us seemed to disappear?"

"Without telling me anything, yes."

"We were busy running reconnaissance and moving the equipment which I ordered at the beginning of the week from one of our suppliers. The original plan was to procure anything we required on-site, but judging from the quality - or lack thereof - I wasn't going to take that risk."

"It's disgusting," one of other maids said. "I've dug up rifles in better condition than the ones they're using now. You would think a country that went through six coups in twenty years would know something about weapon maintenance."

"Unfortunately," the head maid continued, setting the pistol aside and picking up an empty magazine, "it was on rather short notice, so the only equipment that was available to us in bulk was Heckler & Koch. A pity; I would have preferred a Sig but hopefully this will do. At least the SMGs are easily concealable."

"...and when you say 'suppliers' you mean 'illegal arms dealers.'"

"Technically, no." She plucked a handful of bullets out of the box beside her, gesturing to Donovan with the magazine. "You'd be surprised at the sort of track record Heckler & Koch has."

"A legitimate company shipped a small order of guns to... whatever we are, in the middle of a nation you're planning to rob."

"A nation _we're_ planning to rob, and the actual delivery was done by another party entirely."

"So they're arms dealers."

"No, more like intermediaries. They didn't sell the weapons, they only dropped them off for us." She began feeding rounds into the magazine. "Setting semantics aside, you'll be happy to know that we've located the post where the contraband is being kept, not too far off the path to the airstrip. Given a sufficient distraction there should be no problems clearing it and making off with what's inside."

Donovan shook his head. "...still can't believe we're stealing drugs..." he muttered.

"According to Helene's report it's worth at least another two million. Possibly more, depending on how quickly they finish processing the most recent harvest."

"Two million _total?_ "

"Two million to everyone."

Donovan whistled.

"I always found it interesting how the price and number of potential buyers went up the more of it you had," she said casually. "Most likely due to convenience. Annette, pass me that magazine, if you would."


	4. Chapter 4

The head maid poured out a cup of tea for the Generalissimo before setting the silver decanter down, taking a step back and bowing slightly. "Your tea is ready, master."

"Thank you very much," he said, closing his book. "Your service to this great nation is appreciated."

"It is my honor, master."

Castellano gently picked up the teacup and was about to take a sip when a soldier rushed into the room, sweating profusely. "General!" he panted. "Major Ortega has lost his mind! He has... he has turned against our glorious nation and is advancing on the palace with his sympathizers as we speak!"

"Turned against us?" Castellano's face contorted into a rictus of anger. "TURNED AGAINST US?!" He leapt to his feet, hurling the teacup against the far wall. "I knew it! I knew I should not have trusted that rat-bastard! Communists! All of them!!" He pointed to the soldier. "Captain, I want you to gather up every single soldier that can be spared. Every. Single. One. I want Ortega found, I want him stopped, I want him DEAD."

The soldier saluted and ran out of the room, and Castellano turned to the head maid. "Beautiful women should not be involved in ugly things like Communist slaughters. I think I can spare several trucks to get you and the other servants out of harm's way."

"With all due respect, master, I wish to remain here to serve you however I can; I cannot speak for the others, but they may feel as I do."

He stared at her for a second. "You do not fear death at the hands of Communists?"

"As I said, I cannot speak for the others, but to fail to be by my master's side in his time of need is worse than death."

He let out a short, barking laugh. "Very well! You have five minutes. Gather the other maids and figure out who is staying and who is going. Perhaps they may still serve behind the front lines."

"As you wish, master." She bowed deeply before making her way towards the door.

"Your loyalty never fails to impress me!" Castellano said. "Were you but a soldier!"

You have _no_ idea, she thought.

\---

The head maid shoved the door open, striding into the servants' quarters. "Varvara!"

One of the maids nearby snapped to attention. "Yes ma'am."

"It's begun. Alpha and Charlie squads are to regroup here, and Delta and Bravo squads are to regroup in the kitchen, awaiting transport away from the palace. Once Delta and Bravo have evacuated a safe distance from any local forces they are to subdue the drivers and any soldiers with them and commandeer the vehicles as planned. From there, Delta is to secure the airstrip for our escape, Bravo to secure the contraband and then meet up with Delta. I expect radio updates every ten minutes." She turned away. "You have your orders."

The maid snapped off a salute and hurried out of the room.

Even though he had been sitting nearby watching the exchange take place, Donovan still wasn't entirely sure what happened. "Wait a minute," he said, rising to his feet, "what's going on?"

"Revolution, from the sound of things." She gave him a look as she passed by, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. "Good job, by the way."

"On what?"

"On whatever you did to trigger this scenario."

"What makes you think it was me?"

"What makes you think it _wasn't_ you?" she countered.

He let out a pained sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "So what are we going to do?"

"We - or rather, Alpha and Charlie squads - are going to bravely remain here as loyal servants," she replied. Lifting up one edge of the mattress she produced a small SMG, a handgun and several full magazines. "At least until the guards inside are distracted enough to allow us to rob the Generalissimo blind and escape. This may involve shooting our way out of a surrounded position and stealing one or two trucks out from underneath them. Possibly while the rest of them return fire." She punctuated the sentence by sliding a magazine into the SMG.

"...can I go with, um, Delta squad?"

"Of course not." Reaching down, the head maid holstered the SMG beneath her skirt. "I'm going to keep you here where it's safe. Besides, someone needs to help us carry all of Castellano's money."

\---

The covered trucks drove across the grass, coming to a halt near the servants' quarters. The passenger in the vehicle closest to the door exited the cabin, dropping to the ground below. Seconds later the door to the quarters opened and the maids began filing out, forming up in a loose mass before the waiting soldier.

He scanned the crowd. "You are all ready to evacuate?"

The frontmost maid nodded. "We are."

"All right. There is more than enough room for you all, so do not worry about being left behind. Allow me to get the others to help you into-"

"We can manage." She smiled shyly as the maids behind her spread out, heading towards the backs of the trucks. "But thank you."

The soldier watched them for a few seconds before shrugging and returning to the cabin. A minute or two later the last of the maids climbed on board the trucks and they rolled off the mansion's side lawn and back onto the driveway. Passing through the front gates they continued on through the town, eventually turning onto a wide dirt road leading north through the jungle.

After several uneventful minutes of travel a small convoy flew past, heading to the south. Her curiosity piqued, a maid in the rearmost truck leaned forward to speak to the driver through the cab's rear window. "There are so many soldiers heading to fight," she said. "Will there be enough to keep us safe?"

The driver waved her off. "Do not worry, señorita. The guard may be small in number, but they are brave. Besides, we are so far away from the fighting. There is nothing to worry about."

"That's a relief," she replied, aiming a pistol at his head. "Could you pull over?" The driver and passenger did a double-take, their faces growing pale. "Pull over. Now." Glancing over at the passenger she added, "...and you, pass your rifle to me. Slowly."

Nodding dumbly, the soldier handed his Kalashnikov to her through the window as the driver slowed the truck down. He eased it over to the side of the road, and within seconds the truck before them followed suit. A few seconds after that the front truck swerved before skidding to a stop across the makeshift road. The driver's side door swung open and the driver tumbled to the ground, his head hanging at an odd angle and his uniform dark with blood. From behind him one of the maids hopped out, giving the other two vehicles a thumbs-up, knife still in her hand. "He went for his pistol!" she shouted.

Nadezhda shook her head. "Jesus Christ, Zasha."

\---

The two trucks rolled up to entrance of the base, and the guard on duty strolled up to the driver's side of the frontmost vehicle. "Why are you here?" he asked.

The driver's eyes flitted to the side briefly. "We're taking the General's serving staff to safety."

The guard sighed. "One moment." He made a slow circle around the two trucks, peeking into the backs of them to see two sets of rather nervous-looking maids. His suspicion assuaged, he returned to his post and raised the bar blocking their path, waving them though. As the second truck went by, however, he could have sworn that the driver looked slightly off somehow. Still, none of them were rebel forces; considering how all of the soldiers were male they probably would have stood out in dresses.

The two trucks rolled through the center of the base, the remaining guards giving them little more than a second thought, and pulled into an unmanned warehouse. They parked alongside a series of suspicious tarp-covered pallets and the driver of the second truck hopped out, adjusting her cap. Striding out the warehouse entrance she slapped the door controls on the side of the wall, the metal creaking as they closed behind her.

She paused for a second to scan the grounds, eventually spotting her next destination: A small brick building topped with a radio antenna. After waiting a few seconds more for a trio of soldiers between it and her to enter a nearby building she continued her journey across the grounds, arriving at the radio post unmolested.

The interior of the post was rather barren, save for equipment that would have been considered hopelessly outdated in the eighties, and staffed by two soldiers wearing large headsets. It was unlikely that they would have heard the driver enter even if she hadn't taken precautions to ensure that her arrival was as quiet as possible and, indeed, the one closest to the door only noticed her as she approached him, looking up at her just in time for the back edge of her knife to slice through his throat. The man fell backwards in his chair, making a low gurgling noise as he clutched at his throat in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood. He hit the ground with a thud and the second operator rose to his feet as he turned towards the noise, startled. Before he could make a sound, however, the driver was upon him, clamping her free hand over his mouth before driving her knife through his heart, pulling the blade free and letting him slump to the ground.

Pausing briefly to wipe her knife off on her pants she then peeled off her BDU shirt, revealing the top half of her maid's uniform. Producing a small earpiece and microphone, she fitted it into place and calmly said, "radio is silent."

There was a muffled gunshot and the voice on the other end replied, "driver neutralized. Beginning operation."

\---

"Bravo has cleared the base and is currently securing the contraband for transport," the head maid said through Nadezhda's headset. "What's the situation at the airfield?"

"We've encountered resistance." She leaned to the side, peeking around the corner of the building towards the runway. "A squad of rebel troops made a move on the base from the east just after we took out their communications. They managed to take out the Loyalists while we had them distracted, but now they're shooting at us."

"Have they mistaken you for the Loyalists?"

"I'm not sure they care." A bullet impacted the wall near her head in a cloud of masonry dust and she instinctively pulled away. She looked back at the other maids along the wall beside her before her eyes were drawn to a soldier's body, his AK-47 still in his hands. Replacing her MP7 on her back harness with one hand she pointed to the rifle with the other. "The Kalashnikov. Pass it here."

Without a word the maid closest to it scooped it up and tossed it to Nadezhda. After taking a second to inspect it for any superficial damage she flicked the fire selector down, leaned around the corner, took aim at one of the soldiers and fired.

The first round hit the side of the jeep the soldiers were taking cover behind, but after a quick bit of compensation on Nadezhda's part the second hit home, catching one of them in the upper chest and sending him crumpling to the ground. The third hit another in the arm and, as the weapon began to fall from his hands, the fourth went through his face. The third soldier pulled a pin on a grenade and pulled his arm back, ready to throw; the fifth, sixth and seventh rounds all caught him in the torso, causing him to drop his grenade at his feet. The resulting explosion eliminated the need for her to concern herself with any of the remaining soldiers or the jeep they were using for cover.

"Concealment issues be damned," she grumbled, tossing the rifle away and taking up her MP7 again. "I knew we should have purchased rifles." She gestured to the side with two fingers. "Clear those buildings and head to the hangar. Move."

The maids peeled out from behind cover, shifting into formation as they crossed the clearing between the buildings. Entering the side door, they passed through the interior and exited out the other side, going from structure to structure, pausing only to finish off wounded soldiers or lone holdouts.

Leaving the last building they stacked up at the hangar's personnel door, Nadezhda taking up position against the wall beside it with one hand on the knob. "Bang and clear the room, then sweep the building. After I give the all clear I want that plane on the strip and ready to take off in twenty minutes." She turned the knob, shoving the door inward before the maid on the other side lobbed a flashbang into the room, the munition detonating in a burst of light and sound. "Go."

\---

The maid sprinted down the hallway with three of her associates in tow, MP7s in hand. From her earpiece she could hear the voice of the head maid. "All squads, report in."

"Alpha here," the first voice said. "All clear outside the mansion. Loyalist troops have either joined the fighting against the rebels or have been eliminated."

"Bravo here. Contraband has been loaded, and we are en route to the airstrip."

"Charlie squad. The basement storeroom is almost loaded onto the trucks outside."

"Delta has secured the airstrip." Nadezhda said. "We are ready to depart at any time."

"Good," the head maid replied. "Charlie squad, how's Donovan?"

"He's pulling his weight."

"Good. Tango unit, what's your status?"

The maids came to a stop outside the closed bedroom door and stacked up on either side of it. "Tango Four here, we are in position."

A long burst of gunfire issued forth from inside the room, punching through the wooden door in a shower of splinters. "COMMUNISTS!" Castellano screamed. "ALL OF YOU! I knew you Russians were untrustworthy!!"

"Door is hot," she added. "Breach is not advised."

"Acknowledged. Hold position and await further instructions."

There was a series of cracks as three more rounds broke through the door. "You Communists and your lies and your scheming! Filling the heads of my men with ideas about revolution and SOCIALISM and BITING THE HAND THAT FEEDS THEM!" Castellano punctuated his ranting with another series of shots. "Nothing good has ever come from Russia!!"

"He does know where those Kalashnikovs came from, right?" Tango Two said quietly to Tango Four. Tango Four just shook her head and shrugged helplessly.

"Alpha Leader in position. Bang the room but do not enter."

Tango One furrowed her brow. "Ma'am?"

"I repeat, bang the room but do not enter."

"Understood." Tango One nodded to the maid opposite her, who nodded in reply and produced a flashbang from her belt. The leader rested her hand on the doorknob, counting down with her fingers before shoving it open, and the other hurled the grenade into the room. The guards inside fired a few rounds through the doorway before they realized what happened, but by then it was too late.

The flashbang exploded, blinding and deafening Castellano and his entourage. From her hiding place on the balcony outside the bedroom the head maid stepped out of cover, leveled her MP7 and fired through the window at the soldiers within, laying precise bursts down into the guards. Stepping through the shattered remnants of the pane, she charged into the room and grabbed Castellano by the wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him to drop his pistol before kicking one his knees out from underneath him and shoving him face-first to the ground. "Put your hands behind your head and don't move," she said coldly, kneeling to pick up his weapon. "Tango unit, room is secure. Form up on my position."

As Tango unit entered the bedroom the head maid inspected his gold-played Desert Eagle, aiming her MP7 at him with her other hand. "You really don't know a thing about guns, do you?" she murmured. She shoved it into the straps on her tac harness and pulled a spare magazine from the pouch at her hip, ejecting the empty one from her weapon. "Tango One and Two," she began, reloading, "watch the door. Tango Three, stand by in case Castellano tries anything. Tango Four, start taking those pictures off that wall." She reached down and grabbed the Generalissimo's collar, roughly pulling him up to his knees. "I need to ask the General here some questions."

"I will never talk to filthy Communists!" he shouted.

"The gun pointed at your head says otherwise. Now then, that wall behind your bed is approximately two feet wider than it needs to be. Do you have anything hidden behind it?"

"Nothing, least of all anything for the likes of you."

"General, it goes without saying that all the wealth that your nation produces doesn't go towards improving the quality of life for its citizens. You are not a smart man, but even you must have had plans in place in the event that you were deposed, as evinced by the briefcases full of money you had stored in the wine cellar."

Castellano's eyes widened. "How did you know about the money?"

"The door in the wine cellar was a tip-off. But that isn't all there is, is it?"

Tango Four let one of the pictures drop. "Found a wall safe. Electronic lock."

"Excellent. General, what's the password for the safe?"

"You think I would tell you?"

The head maid circled around to Castellano's front and knelt down in his line of sight. "I don't think you understand the situation you're in. Right now we-" She gestured to herself with her free hand. "-are stealing as much of your money from you as we can and don't care if you live or die, though personally you've grown on me somewhat. Major Ortega, on the other hand, wants the country, the money, the narcotics-"

Castellano stared. "How did you know about the drugs?"

"The white bricks wrapped in cellophane were a tip-off. He wants all of that, and he wants your life. Now, the only reason we're in this room at the moment is because I suspected that there was something of value in here." She inclined her head towards the safe. "I was right, and now I'm prepared to offer you a deal: Either you tell us the password and we start showing a vested interest in your survival, or we leave you here for Ortega."

The Generalissimo's expression slowly softened to one of fear, and he lowered his head. "Seven-two-five... three-four-one... six-seven-four... nine-six-six..."

As Tango Four entered the last digit of the passcode, the safe's door unlocked with a dull clunk. She pulled the door open, pulling out a sheaf of folders. "Found some files."

"What's in them?" the head maid asked, not bothering to look away from Castellano.

The maid paged through them. "...Swiss bank accounts. From the dates it looks like he's been funneling money to them ever since he came into power."

The corner of the head maid's mouth curled up in a half-smile. "Congratulations, General Castellano. You've just purchased your ticket out of here."

\---

The head maid strode out the palace's front door towards the idling trucks. "Thanks for waiting," she said. Castellano and the four maids exited the building shortly thereafter, the latter surrounding the former, weapons in hand. "We've another passenger."

Donovan blinked at Castellano. "What's he doing here?"

"We've come to an agreement. We're taking him to safety in exchange for a great deal of his money." She pulled out the gold-plated Desert Eagle and tossed it to Donovan, who fumbled with it a bit before. "Here, have a souvenir."

"That's _my_ gun," Castellano said, outraged.

"It was, yes." Turning her attention to one of the maids she asked, "how goes the fighting?"

"Radio communications indicate that many of the Loyalist troops are either surrendering or defecting," she replied, "thanks in no small part to anger over their mistreatment at the hands of the current regime, either real or imagined."

"Communists," Castellano growled, "all of them. It was probably you who put those ideas into that drunkard's head."

"Drunkard?" Donovan asked guiltily.

"As a father must take a firm hand to his sons," he continued, his voice rising, "so too must a leader to his men! Yet they still do not understand that what I did to them was for their own goods! How could they selfishly put themselves above _me_ , above their own country, and-"

Castellano's words were cut short by a distant crack, followed almost immediately by the sound of a bullet punching through the side of his skull and a spray of red mist and bits of brain. He teetered on his feet for a second before falling to the side through the maids, collapsing lifeless on the ground.

The head maid let out a hiss of displeasure and half-shoved, half-threw Donovan into the back of the nearest truck as Tango unit circled around and jumped into the one idling in front of it. Climbing onto the back the head maid shouted, "get us out of here!"

The trucks quickly came up to speed, swinging around the palace's driveway and heading towards the main gate as the head maid clung to the edge of the canvas roof, nearly thrown off from the sudden acceleration. With some assistance from her fellow servants the head maid pulled herself up and took a step fowards, only to stumble slightly as a hole bored itself into the metal paneling in front of her feet. Briefly concerned about the sudden - albeit slight - impairment of her mobility, she continued towards the front of the truck bed, lowering herself down into the seat opposite Donovan, and looked at her right shin to see a narrow, bloody gouge carved into the right side of it, the pantyhose around it pulling away. "Well," she said, rather casually. "I've been grazed."

Donovan gaped. "You've been shot!"

"No, I've been grazed. It's quite a bit better than I was expecting to get, to be honest, especially after that careless-" She stared at him as he stuffed Castellano's pistol into his belt behind his back, kneeled in front of her and raised her leg, resting it on his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

He pulled the first aid kit out from underneath her seat. "Treating a bullet wound," he replied, undoing the latches and flipping the lid open.

"That isn't a bullet wound. That barely even qualifies _as_ a wound. Getting shot through the shoulder with a 7.62 NATO round, on the other hand-"

"High chance of damage to major nerve clusters and the brachial artery," he replied, almost automatically. He tore the pantyhose away from her injury before tearing open the plastic wrapping on an antiseptic wipe. "Heavy bleeding, but not that difficult to staunch. The damage to the nervous system, not so much. Hold still, this might burn a bit."

"That's right, I forgot that you were going to become a doctor." If having an alcohol-soaked cloth rubbed on a flesh wound caused her any discomfort she didn't show it. "Would it make you feel better if I did let you handle things?"

"Yes."

She sighed. "Very well." It was one of the more unique coping mechanisms she had seen, she noted. "While I have your attention I need to ask you something."

He opened a pack of hemostatic gauze. "Okay."

"You seemed to know who Castellano was ranting about. Would you care to explain how?"

Donovan hesitated for a second before slowly resuming her medical treatment. "About two or three weeks ago I met a man during the anniversary celebration that might have been him, and I might have said something that he took the wrong way."

"So you _did_ do something."

"...kind of."

"You incited a disgruntled military leader to open rebellion."

"I didn't mean to!"

"Would you prefer I said that you encouraged him to rise up against a fascist regime in the hopes of securing a better place for both him and his people?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, I would."

"There you are, then."

\---

The trucks had barely come to a halt on the runway before the maids jumped out, briefcases in hand, and streamed towards the back hatch of the cargo plane. Taking up the rear were Donovan and the head maid, the former now sporting medical dressing around her right shin. Gingerly hopping off the rear of the truck, the head maid spoke into her headset. "Any problems with the locals?"

"Negative. The Loyalists are too occupied with the fighting down south. The rebels caught wind of you trying to escape with Castellano, but reinforcements are still a ways off."

"Castellano is dead," she replied, scaling the ramp. She took one last look at the runway behind her. "All squads are aboard. Get us out of here."

"Roger that."

The rear hatch began to raise, and Donovan could feel the plane lurch slightly as it accelerated down the runway. Scanning the cargo bay for a seat - or at least someplace _to_ sit that wasn't already taken by one of the maids - his eyes came to rest on the half-dozen shipping pallets of what appeared to be white saran wrap-covered bricks. Despite holding no interest in their contents, he couldn't help but be somewhat awed by it.

Noting his line of sight the head maid asked, "do you want to end up acting like Castellano?"

Donovan looked at her. "What?" He glanced at the pallets again, then back at her. "Oh. No, it's just... a lot."

The head maid shrugged slightly. "I've seen bigger, honestly."

He felt the plane sway under his feet slightly, and he gripped one of the internal beams for support. A few seconds later the intercom turned on in a burst of static. "Ladies," the pilot said, "we are in the clear. Congratulations on a job well done."

After the announcement scattered conversation broke out amongst the passengers as they began swapping stories and discussing what had happened during the operation. A half-smile crossed the head maid's lips briefly as she looked over the servants nee soldiers, but disappeared as she turned her attention back to him. "Donovan."

"Yes?"

"We have things to discuss in private." She looked pointedly at the door at the front of the cargo bay before turning and striding away. "Follow me."

\---

The head maid pushed the door open and entered the passageway to the cabin, Donovan following a few steps behind. As he closed the door behind them she came to a stop and turned to face him. "It's going to take a few days to arrange a buyer for the narcotics and launder the money through the appropriate channels," she said, "but even though it's being divided amongst forty-two people you turned quite a profit on your investment." She leaned to the side, looking at the door behind him. "By my estimates there's at least two hundred million on those shipping pallets alone, and who knows how much he had secreted away in Swiss bank accounts."

Donovan slowly nodded, looking away.

"Plus you did incite a coup d'etat in a foreign nation. It's certainly something worth bragging about, but just be wary of where you bring it up. Now..." She folded her arms across her chest. "I just have two questions for you."

He blinked, returning his attention to her. "Okay. Okay, what are they?"

"You could have refused my offer and lived in luxury. After all, you _did_ inherit enough wealth to live comfortably for the rest of your life. Yet you were willing to spend a small - albeit still significant - portion of your late father's estate on what many people would consider either glorified highway robbery or a fool's errand, as well as putting your life in the hands of people you barely even knew. So why did you agree?"

Donovan stared at her for a second, then lowered his head in thought. After a moment of silent contemplation he finally said, "I wanted to see if you could really do it. I didn't think it was possible, but... you were so nonchalant and sure of something so... so..."

"Audacious?"

"What?"

"Daring and fearless."

"Yeah, that. You were so nonchalant about doing something so audacious that I... I wanted to see if it could really be done."

The head maid nodded to herself. "Fair enough. Now for my second question. What are your plans?"

"Plans?"

"Yes, your plans. For your life."

"Oh." He scratched the back of his head. "I don't know. I _could_ go back to medical school, but I don't think I need to work anymore, and even if I did they'd just go bankrupt or burn to the ground-"

"Or suffer a terrorist attack," she added.

"Or that, yeah. I might go back home, but after what happened here it might be a good idea to lay low somewhere."

"I hear Switzerland is lovely. They're much more tolerant of foreigners than most other European countries, more so if you're wealthy. You should look into that."

"Thanks."

She nodded, turning and walking away. "If you'll excuse me, I need to discuss a few things with the pilot. Perhaps we can handle the issues of arranging secondary housing at a later date."

"Wait."

She stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. "Yes?"

"I've got a question for you."

"...all right, let's hear it."

"What's your name?"

Her eyebrow raised almost imperceptibly. "My name?"

"Yeah, for the entire time we've been together all I've heard the other maids or Spetsnaz or whatever they are call you 'the head maid' or 'starsheeyi'-"

"'Starshyna,'" she corrected.

"Right, but I've... I've never actually heard your name."

The head maid stared coldly at Donovan out of the corner of her eye, and Donovan began to fear that he had touched upon some subject that was, to say the least, better left unsaid and forgotten. As the silence stretched on he began to grow concerned, then fearful that he had somehow pushed his luck too far.

After what felt like an eternity, the corner of her lip curled up slightly before she turned away, continuing her slow walk down the corridor. "...and you never will."


	5. Epilogue

The rebel soldier strode into the room and came to a halt before Major Ortega, saluting. "Major, we have found the Generalissimo's former aide-de-camp."

The Major looked up from the maps spread across the table. "He has been captured?"

"No, sir, he came willingly. He was discovered by one of our patrols and asked to speak with you personally."

He furrowed his brow. "Send him in."

Saluting again, the rebel soldier pivoted on his heel and marched out, replaced moments later by Acosta. "Generalissimo Castellano is dead by the hands of one of your snipers," he said matter-of-factly. "You have won."

"Is he, now?" He slowly circled around the table, approaching Acosta. "What of his servants?"

"Gone. They have fled the country."

Ortega nodded to himself. "I see," he said, staring down at Acosta. "But why would you seek me out to tell me this? Face to face, no less?"

"I only wish to see the fighting end as soon as possible. For the good of the country."

"You did not seem to be concerned with the good of the country," he stated, "when Castellano was alive."

"Do you know how to run a country, Major?"

The Major thought for a moment. "I will admit that there are things beyond my knowledge."

"I asked Castellano the same question three years ago, and he gave me the same answer. It is one thing to lead an army, another to lead a country, and yet another to ensure that the people of the country are fed and clothed. I am a servant of the people, regardless of who leads them, and if keeping them fed and clothed means serving the men who killed Generalissimo Castellano, then I will do so willingly and without complaint."

His expression softened, and a moment later Ortega burst into laughter. "You know, I was going to shoot you, but I'm glad I decided to listen to you instead." Ortega put his arm around Acosta's shoulder, leading him outside. "Come. There is much to do."

\--

"Guten Tag, dies ist der Donovan Wohnsitz."

"Your pronunciation is rough, but passable."

"Y- how did you get my number?"

"I have ways. How fares the life of luxury?"

"It's... nice."

"Is it?"

"Well... I'm alright with not having to work, what with how my last few jobs turned out, but it just gets boring at times."

"Have you been keeping busy? Any new hobbies, meeting with any interesting people, anything?"

"I've been to a few parties in the area - there's a couple Americans around - but I just can't connect with them. They're all... rich."

"So are you."

"No, I mean they act it. They've got foie gras paté and expensive wines and I'm buying pork chops and bottles of Coke from Migros. Plus some of the things they talk about are... I don't know, it's over my head."

"After a certain point wealth becomes less about being able to support oneself and more about showing off how wealthy you are."

"Tell me about it. ...you asked about hobbies, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, because I've started a gun collection, actually. Pistols."

"Really, now."

"Yeah, I had the Desert Eagle put into a display case, and the wall just seemed kind of empty so... what the hell, right?"

"Anything special?"

"I managed to find a first-generation Colt Single Action Army for sale online recently. Did you know that the cylinder-"

"-swings out to the right instead of the left? Yes. Colt was left-handed."

"Oh."

"...Donovan, do you mind if I ask you something?"

"You've been asking me questions for a while."

"Yes, but this one is important; the reason I tracked you down, to be quite frank. I had half a mind to leave it be but after hearing you talk about how dull things are I've reconsidered."

"Were you going to ask if you and the other maids wanted to work for me?"

"Something like that. Tell me: Have you ever been to eastern Europe, Donovan?"


End file.
